


Payday

by kashinoha



Category: Leverage
Genre: Hardison and Parker con magic, Hurt/Comfort, Post Series, have a sandwich made of fluff and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day Eliot gets a phone call early in the morning. Somehow, he knows what it means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payday

**Author's Note:**

> So shortly after I finished the series I happened upon letsgostealafandom's [post](http://letsgostealafandom.tumblr.com/post/143430946112/okay-but-consider-eliot-making-a-deal-with-the) , got inspired, and did a thing.
> 
> Additional note: a few of you know how nervous I was about writing Cherokee!Eliot. Although I did my research, I invite anybody to please correct anything I may have missed!

 

**Payday  
**

All characters © Chris Downey and John Rogers

 

 

 

It’s five-thirty in the morning, twenty-nine minutes and six seconds before he officially wakes up, when Eliot’s cell starts ringing. Which is strange because one, Eliot always keeps his phone on vibrate when he sleeps and two, the number shows up as “unlisted.”

Eliot growls and fumbles for the phone (he swears, if it’s Hardison complaining about the goddamn menu _one more time_ ), swiping it open and barking out a rusty “What?”

There is silence on the other end—not even static, just _nothing,_ and that’s when Eliot knows.

He’s been feeling it for a while, now. It’s in the cracks of his bones, the slow healing, the failing eyesight, the scarring that started ten or so years ago and never faded.

It’s almost time.  

Eliot sits up, bracing the sharp points of his elbows on his knees. The rising summer sun winks in through the window blinds he’s kept shut, just bright enough to make him squint.

Things have been good, he thinks. Well, not really. But good enough for him. He’s prepared for this for the past…however long it’s been.

The only thing is, Eliot realizes, part of him doesn’t want to go. So he does what he does best: tune it out. He turns on some bluegrass, swallows that part down with hot, black coffee, and washes the remaining bits away with a shower.

Because the thing is, he was never supposed to get attached.

 

 

 

The flow of brew pub beer in July is strong and healthy, but the flow of legal crime, on the other hand, is slow. On top of it there’s not even anyone in the Black Book who fits the bill. Eliot has to do some digging before he finds enough to call Parker and Hardison in. When he does, they both stare at him like he’s sprouted another eye in the middle of his forehead.

“Seriously, man? Bourbon?”

Parker shuts the fridge and frowns. “Faking a bottle I get, but how do you fake bourbon?”

“In order for whiskey to be bourbon it’s gotta be at least fifty-one percent corn,” Eliot explains. He’s trying to put some “oomph” into it even though he doesn’t care about the fucking bourbon because it’s all about the sell and he needs this, wants this. “The higher the percentage, the sweeter the bourbon. If it’s lower than that it’s just plain whiskey.”

“Corn crops in Kentucky have been at an all-time low,” Hardison reads from his tablet. He looks up and frowns. “Getting enough corn would make it harder to mass produce bourbon at this scale, so what, they’re faking _corn?”_

“The Kentucky Distillers’ Association added the Barlow Distillery to the Bourbon Trail last year,” replies Eliot. “But Ted Barlow’s guys are using a low percentage of corn, genetically modifying it with enough artificial sweetening agents for it to pass as bourbon, then selling it on the market.”

“Okay,” Parker says, “but this doesn’t exactly meet our criteria.”

“It does when the chemicals used to treat the corn survive the distilling process,” says Eliot. He pulls up a stat on the monitor, secretly proud of himself for learning how to navigate Hardison’s displays system. “These are the amount of people that have died from ‘unrelated causes’ in Kentucky since Barlow started mass producing.”

Parker sets a bowl on her lap and begins stirring its contents with a spoon. “Alright,” she says, convinced.

“Wait, hold up,” Hardison says, “are we not talking about how _Eliot’s_ picked a job? Do you even have us a client?”

Eliot bristles. “So now I can’t find you a case,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“No, man, it’s just,” Hardison looks to Parker for help but Parker’s got her mouth full of whatever she's found in the pub’s fridge. He sighs and finishes somewhat lamely, “You don’t usually pick new cases unless they're, well, uh, personal. Like, you haven't done a briefing in months and it's _seriously_ weirding me out right now.”

And Eliot can’t even be mad, because they are bored. Eliot sees it in the way Hardison’s fingers twitch of their own accord, itching to hack and tear town firewalls, in the way Parker snacks and stretches even when she doesn’t need to.

“I haven’t hit anything in a couple weeks,” Eliot says. It's a good enough excuse as any. Hardison raises an eyebrow.

“Anything living,” Eliot elaborates.

“Yeah and I kind of want to tase someone,” says Parker. Before anyone can reply she points her spoon at the screen and observes, “You know, Walton’s pretty close to Kensington.”

Hardison’s other eyebrow goes up. “You mean the place where we did that Kentucky derby job? And we met Sterling for the first time?”

“You know I’m still iffy on the whole ‘horses’ thing, right?” Parker asks, turning to Eliot, whose eye is twitching at the mere mention of Sterling.

Eliot grits out, “Look, if you don’t wanna—“

Parker shakes her head. “Let’s do it.”

Hardison gives in with a roll of his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “How much prep time will we need for this?”

“Given how much you know about making beer, at least a week,” Eliot replies, dry. Hardison starts sputtering, but Eliot ignores him.

He could have gone himself. It would have been simpler. Less messy, fewer questions, in and out. Eliot knows the other two will put the pieces together but somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to go alone in case, well.

Call him selfish, but if these are his last days, weeks, whatever, Eliot wants to spend them with his family.

 

 

 

The bourbon case, or as Hardison puts it, “The Corny Cowboy Job,” is spectacularly average. Barlow’s safe isn’t even the newest Glen Reader model. Parker takes pleasure in embarrassing Barlow and his security system and Hardison, just for kicks, uploads some rather unsavory videos of the distillery to YouTube complete with screaming goats and dramatic chipmunks.

The only hitch in the plan is in Barlow’s security detail, because who trains alcohol distillers in fucking Krav Maga? Apparently Leverage Int. aren't the only ones with way too much time on their hands.

Eliot’s mildly impressed; they are good brawlers and there are a lot of them. On one hand he is definitely getting his workout. On the other it’s annoying, because it is hot as balls in the little shed they’re in and one of the idiots has sprained his wrist (which is not enough to slow Eliot down but it throbs something awful).

He takes most of them out, but to be fair even he finds it hard to keep track of two dozen guys at once in close range with his hair in his eyes and sweat rolling down his face. Eliot delivers a spinning kick to the goon crouched down behind him and almost doesn’t feel the syringe in his thigh.

At first he is confused as to why the last two guys have stopped fighting. They just straighten up and _leave,_ which would have been kind of insulting but then he feels something sticking out of his leg and Eliot and gets it.

When the convulsions start he realizes that this could very well be it. He may not come back this time.

His mind goes to Parker and Hardison, and how he never got to say goodbye to them. Eliot tries to think of something else in his final moments, but finds that he can’t. 

 

 

 

Ten minutes later Eliot walks out of the back shed and smooths down his hair. There’s a little spot of foam on his chin.

 

 

 

“So when were you going to tell us?” Parker asks, one plane ride later back in Portland.

Eliot looks up from his book. It’s raining outside and none of them really felt like going home. He squints. “What?”

From the couch, Hardison rolls over so he’s sitting upright and snorts. “Don’t think we didn’t figure it out, man.”

_“What?”_

“Aayyy-meee,” Hardison sings. “Picking a job near her ranch just to see her? You sly fox, you.”

Eliot’s bottom lip twitches. “Yeah alright, I went to see her,” he snaps. “Happy now?”

Parker cocks her head. “Are you?” she asks him.

The question throws Eliot for a loop. It astounds him, that even after all these years Parker is still able to do that. “I guess so?” Eliot says, because he doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He saw Amy; she kissed him and then smacked him because she's smart and from one look, even without saying anything, she could tell. That it was the last time they would see each other.

Amy’s the only one Eliot bothered saying goodbye to. The others are dead or gone, ashes lost to the wind. Eliot has bedded flight attendants and scientists and nurses and so, so many over the years. Sex doesn’t fill the void that he…sold, but it helps, a little.

Something must have shown on his face because Parker looks like she wants to ask something. Before she can, Hardison cuts in with a sawing motion against his throat. “Please babe, I for one want _no_ details about Eliot’s sex life. There are some things a man’s gotta keep to himself, you dig?”

 

 

 

Sometimes Eliot marvels at what a giant idiot he is.

He thought spending his remaining time with them would make it easier, but it only makes things more difficult. Instead of closure there is heartache. It _hurts,_ like briars poking out of snow, because they’ve somehow managed to fill that open gorge inside him, the one he thought had no bottom, when no one else could.

So after the Kentucky job Eliot starts the slow, painful extricating process—more for himself than for them. He spends more time on his own, makes excuses when Parker demands a movie night or when Hardison calls in a panic with the kitchen looking like Chernobyl. It’s easier with Sophie gone. No perceptive grifter to notice that he’s living on borrowed time. He may have until tomorrow, next month. A week. Eliot isn’t sure, but either way he gets his affairs in order.

Hardison he teaches how to read body language, facial tells, where the weakest nerve clusters are. He explains chakra points and energy centers, how to spot concealed weapons, and even gets Hardison to work the oven (which never ends well for either of them, but at least Eliot tries). When they’re on cases he starts throwing in random facts about everything that he’s picked up and hopes that some of it will stick.

Hardison calls Eliot “Britannica” one afternoon, and rather than growl Eliot just smiles.

The last thing he does is channel his remaining savings into safe houses. One at the foothills of the Ozark Mountains and the other in Tibet, there for Parker and Hardison when they need them. Moving funds around without Hardison noticing is damn near impossible, but Eliot’s picked up a few things over the years.

With Parker, he tries a slightly different approach.

“You want to hyperextend the shoulder joint so they can’t move without pain,” he says. “If you’re able to, though, go for the armbar. In Judo there are nine different types.”

Parker extricates herself from Eliot’s shoulder lock and blows bangs out of her eyes with her lower lip. “Why do I need to know this?” she huffs. “It’s your job.”

“I could be…I could be out of position,” Eliot says. It’s better than saying _I could be gone,_ but only a little. He looks at Parker with her hair in a messy bun and wearing old sweats that have a burn mark on one knee from when Hardison tried to grift a smoker (unsuccessfully) and something in Eliot’s heart crumples a little because he realizes that he loves them, his new friends.

He’s not _done,_ they still need protecting. Or maybe he just thinks they do.

“Okay, geez, don’t get all grumpy,” says Parker, bringing Eliot back. “Let’s go again.”

“When you’ve got a two hundred fifty-pound guy on you with a gun or a knife you’re gonna thank me,” Eliot tells her, getting into a stance.

 

 

 

Every time his phone rings now he wants to throw the damn thing against the wall. Instead, he picks it up and breathes a sigh of relief when it’s only Hardison complaining about Chaos or their other Leverage Int. branches checking in.

 

 

 

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Parker says, on Friday.

“No, I haven’t,” Eliot lies.

“I offered to cook the other day and you _let_ me,” says Parker, her face scrunching up. “You never let me cook. Usually it’s all, ‘Parker don’t burn down the pub’ or ‘Parker ketchup doesn’t go on broccoli.’ Do you have a cold?”

“I—what?”

“You don’t _seem_ sick, but it’s really hard to tell with you,” Parker says. She reaches over in an attempt to feel Eliot’s forehead. He smacks her hand away.

“I can’t check your temperature, Eliot!”

“Parker stop, I’m fine,” he grumbles.

Crossing her arms, Parker looks at him and says, “You’ve been weird ever since the Kentucky job.”

Eliot sighs. “Can’t you let it go? I just need some space,” he says.

“Oh.” Parker uncrosses her arms, blinking a little. It’s a very Hardison-like gesture. “Okay. Space, yeah, it’s cool.” She forces a laugh. “Whatever.”

Eliot squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Parker…”

“No, I get it,” she says. “You need Man Space. But if it’s something important you’d tell us, right?”

“You—“Eliot’s shoulders slump, because what the hell is Man Space and he can’t do this, not right now. “Right.”

That evening he cooks them the most elaborate meal he’s ever made for two people. He uses all of their favorites: a five-topping cheese-crusted pizza for Hardison and bacon Parmesan linguini for Parker, with a side of sweet potato fries and a three-layer dome cake for dessert. No vegetables, starch on starch, salty and sweet. Just the way they like it. And yeah, he might have gone a little overboard, and something at the back of his mind nags him about the Last Supper, but Eliot has no regrets.

Sure he might be avoiding them a little, but when it matters, he will be there for them until the very end.

 

 

 

They get a client two days later, out of the blue. Mrs. Lampshire has her teeth bared for blood over an insurance scam that’s left her teenage boy injured and her family broke. So they head out to Beaverton to go steal a Little League and Eliot gets to revisit his softball persona (which is really just his baseball persona but with a larger ball to hit people with).  

Things go to shit very quickly, like eating a bad hot dog, when Eliot gets shot. Experience should have taught him by now that sports embezzlers are the sorest losers, and some of the most violent, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen.

And it isn’t an arm shot or a shoulder graze. Even a shot to the lung Eliot can walk off to some degree before he needs medical attention. Only this is a heart shot fired from four feet away.

No room for mistake.

Hardison and Parker see the whole thing. Eliot was standing in front of them, after all.

So of course they don’t miss how he’s still walking around and beating the shooter to a pulp five minutes later and all Eliot can think is _dammit._

After the job they ride home in complete silence. Eliot is usually their designated driver, but this time Parker takes the wheel—which is how Eliot knows it’s bad. Nobody lets Parker drive Lucille. Hardison sits in the back quiet, quieter than he’s ever been, so Eliot rests his head against the van’s inner wall and prays they don’t get pulled over by a cop.

“Do you want anything, man?” Hardison says, finally, when they reach the pub.

“Um,” says Eliot. Hardison’s looking at him like he would a spooked horse in a thunderstorm and Eliot’s panicking because he just realized that he’s never actually _told_ anyone before.

Parker’s gone for the leftover dome cake, straight from the tin foil. A frown mars her features as she eats over the table methodically, but she does not seem unduly worried. Parker still believes in Santa, Eliot remembers, so she’s probably the most accepting of the paranormal.

Hardison hasn’t stopped staring at Eliot’s torso, where the fabric of his Henley is torn and there is quite obviously _not_ a bullet wound there.

“You gonna freak out?” Eliot asks quietly.

That seems to snap Hardison out of it. He splays a hand against his chest. “Am I—am I gonna freak out?” he repeats. “Brother, you just got shot through the _heart,_ man, and, and you’re all up walkin’ like it’s all good and askin’ _me_ if _I’m_ gonna freak out—“

“Hardison, you’re freaking out,” Parker says, and takes an enormous bite of cake. Sitting at the table across from Parker, Eliot notices for the first time that there’s blood speckled on both their shirts.

“You’re damn right I’m freaking out,” replies Hardison. “That’s some supernatural shit right there, is what it is.”

“I could tell you that I faked the shot. Switched out Kinsley’s gun and had ketchup packets in my pocket,” Eliot says, slowly. “We’ve done it before. We could…” he swallows. “We could leave it at that.”

“Uh-uh,” says Parker, shaking her head. “That was real blood. And we felt the impact.” She looks down at her blouse. “Should have worn black.”

“I toldja you don’t wear black when it’s ninety degrees in the summer,” Eliot says, pointing a finger at her, momentarily distracted. It had been an argument they’d had on the way down to Kentucky. Needless to say Eliot had won.

“Woman, what is,” Hardison closes his eyes and starts again. “Now y’all decide to talk about fashion? That ain't no damn ketchup.”

Ignoring him, Parker turns to Eliot. “Are you a vampire?”

Eliot chokes on nothing. “I’m not a vampire, Parker,” he says.

“A zombie?”

“No!” Eliot sighs, gets up to pour himself a beer. “I’m…me,” he says, after a minute.

Parker narrows her eyes at him. “You’re human?”

“Of course I’m human,” Eliot says, uncomfortable. “It’s uh, a little hard to explain without sounding five kinds of crazy.”

“Eliot, you _died,”_ says Hardison. He seems calmer, but not enough to sit down, so Eliot decides to try another route.

“I never told you how old I am,” he starts.

“Thirty-five,” Hardison answers immediately. “Your birthday’s November 8th.”

Eliot smiles grimly. “No, it’s not.”

“What do you mean, ‘no it’s not?’ I have your file.”

“I don’t care how old you are,” Parker says. “Why can’t you die?”

Here it goes. Eliot clears his throat and takes a swig of beer before answering. “I made a deal with someone.” He pauses. “Someone you should avoid at all costs.”

Parker scratches her head. “Like the Devil?”

“Settlers found gold in Georgia, and before we knew it we were kicked out of our homes,” Eliot explains, ignoring Parker’s question. “I wanted to protect my people, so I did something you never, ever do.”

“Dude, Georgia’s got a ton of gold mines, I don’t know what you’re—“Hardison freezes, because Eliot’s as careful with his choice of words as he is with his cooking, and that can’t be right. “Settlers,” he repeats. If it’s just coming back from the dead, maybe Hardison can get behind that, but if what he’s thinking…

“Yeah,” Eliot says, looking away. “The Cherokee removal. It’s a long story.”

Slowly, Hardison unlocks his tablet, pulls up a page, and reads aloud, “The forced relocation of the Cherokee followed the Indian Removal Act of—“he blanches. “Of 1830? Oh, mm _-mm_. Nope. Eliot, no.”

“I made the deal in 1838,” Eliot says softly, almost whispering. “Gave up my soul, my _humanity,_ in return for the ability to serve and protect.” His eyes fell. “But still, thousands died. They called it the Trail of Tears.”

Hardison’s shaking his head back and forth. “You’re joshing us, right? No _way_ you’re two hundred. You’ve gotta be pulling our legs, man.”

Eliot’s temper flares. “I died for you!” he snaps, pinching the fabric of his bloodied shirt. “I’ve died for you. For all of you! I’ve been dying for you, over and over again, for the past five and a half years!”

Hardison swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.

“That can’t be right,” Parker says. She licks her fork. “What about that time I hit you with a car and you fell into the bay?”

“I drowned,” Eliot answers. He starts counting on his fingers. “At the carnival I didn’t just get knocked out, I got my skull bashed in. The staged wrestling match with Tank stopped my heart. Stabbed by the Russian mob two years ago, carbon monoxide poisoning at the winery—“

“Stop, man,” Hardison says, looking sick.

“I don’t go down,” Eliot tells them. “Not until the job is done. That’s the deal.”

“How could we not have known about this? For almost six years?” Parker asks, and something in both Eliot and Hardison twinges because she is near tears.

“Hey.” Eliot reaches across the table and touches her arm, his voice gentle. “Bein' good at my job means you don’t find out. Ever.” He grimaces. “I failed today.”

“How?” Parker asks. “We’re still here. _That’s_ your job.”

“It is,” Eliot agrees.

Rubbing his temples, Hardison says, “So you’re…what, immortal. Sounds crazy, but alright.” He snorts. “Call me crazier for believing you. I shoulda known; nobody dates _that_ many people in one lifetime. Did Nate know?”

Eliot shakes his head. Nate may have had his suspicions, but not wanted to believe. After all, Eliot was good at what he did. Usually.

“Damien Moreau knew,” Eliot replies, tipping back his glass to get the last of his beer. “He figured it out. He was the only one.”

 “Okay,” Hardison says, “I feel like one of my computers sayin’ this, but I’m still gonna need a little processing time.”

Parker frowns at him as if to say _Really, Hardison?_ And Eliot almost wants to laugh. Reality works differently for Parker, so she’ll be okay. Hardison spends his Sunday nights playing every fantasy and sci-fi video game under the sun, so he’ll be okay too. At least he hopes.

“Are we cool?” asks Eliot. He’s fiddling with his bracelet like he does when he’s uncomfortable, the realization hitting him that he is actually nervous for what Hardison might say.

And maybe he’s not as stoic as he used to be, maybe something does show on his face because Hardison takes one look at him and completely switches gears.

“Eliot, man, hey. We will _always_ be cool. You know that, right?” he says, walking over to the table so he’s standing closer to Eliot. “You’re still you, and that’s never gonna change. I mean, you could have—“he waves his hand at Eliot’s face—“horns, or a blue tongue, or a giant butt or something, and we’d be cool. _I_ just need to wrap my head around the fact that there’s _magic_ and shit and this isn’t all just a dream from eatin’ too many gummy worms before bed last night.”

“Think of it like a video game, but real life,” Parker suggests.

“Not helpful, but alright,” Hardison replies, not unkindly, and extends his hand so he and Eliot can do their Tight Bros Handshake.

Eliot bumps Hardison’s fist, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.

 

 

 

His good mood lasts through the night up until 2am, when Parker calls.

“Eliot, what did you mean when you said you don’t go down until the job is done?”

Well shit.

“Parker…” Eliot rubs the sleep from his face. For not being much of a people person Parker has certainly come a long way since they first met. He should have expected she’d be the one to catch that.

Eliot can hear a clicking sound on the other end and recognizes it as Parker biting her nails, which she only does when she’s anxious. “Is this why you’ve been acting weird lately?” she asks. “Is something wrong? You’re not even mad that I woke you up.” 

Eliot doesn’t say anything.

“Hardison and I have been trying to figure out why you’ve been all lone ranger,” Parker goes on, and Eliot rolls his eyes because it’s such a Hardison expression. “You showed me how to tell pistols apart the other day, and you’ve been teaching us how to fight and garden and stuff. Nate did this sort of thing, before he..." She pauses. "It feels kind of like you’re leaving.”

“No Parker, I’m not—“

“You made us dinner!” she says shrilly.

“I always make you guys dinner.”

Parker’s quiet for a minute before she speaks again. “It was different. I don’t know how to describe it. You put feelings into food, Eliot. And I’m not usually… _good_ with that, but this felt like a goodbye.”

And that’s when he knows he can’t keep lying to them. So Eliot rolls over onto his back, sighs, and says, “Yeah, alright, fine. There is…there’s something. Come by tomorrow morning, you and Hardison.”

He hangs up and stares up at the ceiling for a long time. Eliot supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that his contract is finally coming to an end. He’s been happier than he ever was, with Hardison and Parker, happy in a different way than he is when he knocks someone unconscious.

Finally belonging somewhere, maybe that was all he needed.

His phone stays silent until the sun rises, for which Eliot is grateful.

 

 

 

Hardison looks like he’s barely slept, and is already at the pub when Eliot and Parker arrive. Parker shakes off her umbrella because it’s raining (again) and Eliot removes his shoes, placing them by the door.

“Wanna guess what I found, Eliot?” Hardison asks, and before Eliot can reply he smacks a paper file onto the backlit tables. Eliot already knows what’s inside it.

Parker opens the file and brushes through it. “These are safe houses,” she reads.

Hardison folds his arms, eyes hard. “Registered under _our_ aliases.”

“You’re welcome,” Eliot says. It’s kind of a dickish thing to say, but it’s only a cover for how nervous he is.

“That isn’t, that’s not—why isn’t your name there, man?” Hardison demands.

Neither one of them looks like they have slept much, and if they haven’t slept then they certainly haven’t eaten, so Eliot pushes himself away from the table and says, “C’mon, let’s go out front. I’ll make you guys some breakfast.”

“Food doesn’t solve everything,” Parker grumbles. She still has the file in hand, her lips pressed into a thin line. “But I am hungry, so we eat and _then_ you tell us what’s going on.”

Three frittatas and several cups of coffee later, Eliot finally has some idea of what he’s going to say. That, or at least his brain is functioning a little better after the caffeine. The rain pounds on the pub’s windows, heavy and fast.

“I’m not immortal,” he begins. “I mean, yeah, I don’t age or die,” he clarifies, since Hardison’s opened his mouth to argue, “but it’s temporary.”

“You made a contract,” Parker says.

Eliot nods. “I’m stronger, faster, and I heal quicker. But that’s only until I meet the terms of agreement.” He takes a breath before going on. “If those I’ve designated to serve no longer need it, or if I’m…satisfied, in some way, my debt is paid.”

“Wait, hold up, hold up. Are you saying your—“Hardison twirls his index finger at Eliot—“that you’re done here? What, you just pack your things and move on to someone else now?”

“Not this time.” Eliot meets their eyes. “Feels different. I guess my time’s up.”

“Does this mean you’re going to die?” Parker asks, looking down at the counter.

“I think…” Eliot trails off, staring into his coffee mug. “Yeah.”

Immediately, Hardison smacks the countertop with the flat palm of his hand. “Dammit, Eliot.”

Parker’s fingers are gripping the table, knuckles white. “Leverage International needs three people,” she says. “It won’t work without three. I need—we need—“she bites her lower lip.

“We just need to figure out a way around this,” says Hardison, his hand resting on Parker’s shoulder. He scrubs his other hand over his face. “So tell us, Eliot. How do we con magic?”

The lines around Eliot’s mouth draw down. “You don’t,” he says.

“Nu-uh, I don’t buy that. What do we have to do, make another deal?”

Eliot grits his teeth. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Look,” Hardison says. _“You_ may be cool with you dying and all, but we’re not. How do we beat this?”

Now it’s Eliot’s turn to slam his hand down. “There’s nothing to beat, Hardison!” he exclaims. “I did my time, and now I pay for it. It’s a fair exchange. You don’t con a fair exchange.” A low rumble of thunder punctuates his sentence, adding more weight to it.

“Since when have we ever cared about fair?” Parker asks quietly. “We’re thieves.”

Eliot’s eye twitches.

Hardison pushes his plate away so he can rest his elbows on the counter. When he speaks, his voice is low and soft. “Eliot. D’you think it would work if Parker ‘n me exchange our, uh, souls so you can stay?”

“Don’t you dare,” Eliot growls. “Even if you could, that kind of thing…what it’ll make you,” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I would never let you do that to yourselves.”

Hardison protests, “So it’s okay when you did it, but not us?” at the same time Parker asks, “How can you be okay with this?”

“I’m not!” Eliot explodes. He glares at them. “I’m not, okay?”

Parker and Hardison fall silent.

“I’m ready to go, but I sure as hell don’t want to,” Eliot tells them, slightly less forceful than he had been a moment ago. “I might not always say it, but I,” he swallows and licks his lips, “I like it. Here.”

Parker puts hand on his shoulder. “We know,” she says.

“You guys might not need protecting anymore, but for the first time in a…in a while I feel like I belong somewhere,” Eliot admits. He stares at Parker’s hand on his shoulder, and Hardison’s hand on Parker’s. “Nate started it, but you guys finished it.”

“Eliot,” Hardison says.

“And I know you guys are gonna worry, but—“

“Yo, Eliot!”

Eliot pauses to snap at Hardison only to see that Hardison’s not even looking at him. He’s looking at Parker.

The odd thing is, Parker’s smiling. Genuinely smiling. And it’s not her Chocolate Convention Smile, or her Let’s Push Hardison off a Roof Smile.

It’s her Room Full of Lasers Smile, the challenge soon to be met. The smile that tells of the impossible made possible.

“Eliot, can you tell us about how you did it?” she asks, hand cupping her chin.

Eliot rubs his bracelet. “I need to know that you’re not going to—to—“

“Relax.” In a swift motion, Parker hops over the bar chair in a way that makes Hardison grin. _“We’re_ going to do it. Do you remember the summoning?” she asks.

“It’s not the kind of thing you forget,” Eliot says. “But Parker, you can’t—“

Parker’s smile widens. Now it’s her Shark Smile, the one where she’s spotted blood in the water. She’s in full Mastermind Mode, and Eliot and Hardison both know that when she goes there there’s no talking her down.

“Okay guys,” she says, showing her teeth. “Let’s go steal a magic deal.”

“For realz,” Hardison adds, and in that moment Eliot both wants to punch and hug them at the same time.

 

 

 

The rain clears up, but the Leverage Headquarters remain stormy. Days pass slow, heavy, as if time itself is waiting. They stop taking jobs and spend more time together, Parker and Hardison on some level knowing there’s the possibility this won’t work and that these days might be their last as three.

Eliot argues with them because _he_ knows it’s pointless to try to find a way out of a centuries-old pact. He doesn’t want them to spend his final hours getting themselves into danger, or worse.

That’s not his job.

Hardison argues that if they’re in danger then Eliot’s job is in fact _not_ done, and it’s kind of funny to watch a cybergenius applying logic to magic so Eliot just shuts up and lets Hardison work it out.

He thinks about sneaking off and doing the ritual on his own. If only because he does remember, and yeah, it’s definitely not the kind of thing he wants Parker or Hardison doing. But Hardison would find out if he did. These days Eliot can’t even seem to sneeze without Hardison knowing, if he wants to know, and despite his too-persistent claims that he doesn’t bug them without their permission, Eliot’s not so sure.

Parker comes to him with a pile of Wicca books and Eliot doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s doing it wrong. She seems to get the hint though, and spends that evening taking apart all the locks in the pub and strewing the pieces along the kitchen table because they’ve found that’s how Parker vents when she’s not destroying corporate embezzlers.

Eliot says _what the hell_ on a Tuesday and shows them how to find crossroads; the sacred spots, the special places that look different when the sun goes down. Anywhere you go there are ley lines; you only need know where to look. In the end, it’s all about barometrics. Eliot tells them, not only because they asked, but because he admits there's a small, scrappy part of him that's fighting desperately to stay.

By Thursday Parker’s thought of six plans. Hardison’s thought of eight, but he claims that three of them are taken from his Skyrim RPG. Eliot’s worried Hardison is going to keel over from hyperglycemic shock so he replaces all the candy in the pub with veggie snacks. Parker’s buttoned her shirt wrong and there’s a Sharpie stain on the side of one wrist, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

At the end of the week they come to him with plan Equivalent Exchange, and Eliot is less than pleased. “So what, you’re just going to bargain?” he says. “That’s your plan?”

“We told you. It’s a little like the Glengarry Glen Death Scam, but, y’know, with actual death this time,” Hardison says, and looks over to see a tic in Eliot’s jaw. “Eliot, chill. We’re the best.”

“I read Faust!” Parker exclaims, from her cross-legged position atop one of the pub’s empty tables.

Eliot looks up from wiping down the tables with a damp rag. There’s a thing, itching at the back of his mind ever since they walked through the door like a foot that’s asleep: prickly and tingling. The plan, assuming one _could_ have an actual plan when dealing with supernatural elements, is thought-out, sound—brilliant, even—but there’s something wrong with it.

It’s all a little bit off in a way that makes Eliot uncomfortable solely because he can’t figure out _what_ is off about it. He decides to leave it for now.

“Parker, you got that book an hour ago,” he says.

Parker frowns. “Yeah. So?”

Hardison shakes his head. “Not a stellar example of how to strike a deal,” he tisks over Eliot's groan. He leans forward and surveys Eliot over the screen of his laptop. “So Eliot. What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” says Eliot, rag poised.

“The freaky dude you made a pact with,” Hardison replies. “I mean, I dunno what to call him ‘cause on one hand I don’t want to be insulting by calling him ‘it,’ but I _also_ don't want to call him the wrong name, so what exactly are we dealing with?”

“Picture James Sterling, but worse,” Eliot says after a minute. He goes back to his wiping. “And female.”

 

 

 

A pain’s started in Eliot’s chest. Dull at first, but he can feel it pressing, stretching against his lungs and heart. That’s how he knows it’s almost time. He supposes it is generous, in a way, giving him a warning before the fall.

He doesn’t tell the others.

 

 

 

On Sunday Eliot cooks them their favorite foods and Hardison lets Eliot teach him how. Parker watches a sci-fi movie curled up next to Eliot in her Iron Man socks and Eliot even eats a few gummy frogs on a dare because Hardison’s been trying to get him to try one for five years and Eliot’s staunchly refused.

It’s too perfect. When Eliot gets the call a day later, he almost feels relieved.

 

 

 

Hardison wakes up, the sheets next to him cool, and sees Parker standing at the foot of the bed in front of him.

He props himself on his elbows and yawns. “Babe. Everything alright?”

“It’s today,” Parker says.

Immediately, Hardison is awake. “Like _today_ today?” he says, paling.

Parker nods.

Hardison sits up and rubs his eyes. “Okay,” he says, “okay.”

Parker comes to sit by him on the bed. She’s stiff, like she is willing her body to move normally. “We got this,” she says.

Cracking an equally stiff smile, Hardison replies, “We totes got this.” The smile fades. “But, uh…if things don’t work out you know what we have to do, right?”

Parker looks at her feet. “Eliot said not to. He’ll be mad.”

“He’s worried about preserving our virtue,” says Hardison. “He doesn’t want Leverage International to become another soulless corporation.”

This makes Parker snort a little. Hardison stands and starts to dress.

“I don’t know about you, but how soulless does Eliot seem?” Parker asks him, as she grabs a towel for her shower. “I mean, if that’s what someone looks like without a soul, I think we can still help people?”

“It’s never stopped us before, babe,” jokes Hardison, grinning. He’s nervous as hell, and Parker knows he’s nervous, so he sucks in a breath and watches Parker strip out of her baggy pajamas.

At the door, Parker pauses. “Will we have to watch Nate and Sophie die?”

Hardison exhales, walks over to the door, and plants a slow, soft kiss on Parker’s exposed neck. “Like you said, that’s Plan M,” he murmurs. “Let’s make A through L work first.” Hardison feels something cold and hard settle in his gut at the thought of losing Eliot.

As if reading his mind, Parker brushes her hand over his and says, “We’re not losing Eliot.”

 

 

 

They don’t say much at the pub. Don’t need to. Usually Hardison talks too much when he’s on edge but this time he is silent. Eliot sits between them and watches, listens. Tries to remember them like this.

Finally, Hardison says, “Let’s have a toast,” like it’s any other day and they’ve put some sleazy company behind bars or saved a hospital or something like that.

Eliot almost splutters when Hardison pours them some of his reputed, self-distilled “fruity wine” that tastes like the underside of Lucille’s hood. “What is this shit?” he manages, coughing.

“Oh hey, now,” Hardison says, but it’s gentle like he’s not really offended and Parker leans over to clink her glass against Eliot’s.

“Just choke it down,” Parker whispers. She winks behind a hand. “Usually I can choke down what Hardison gives me, but his wines, not so much.”

It should be funny, but somehow Parker’s inappropriateness only brings home how nervous she is, and if _Parker’s_ freaking out Eliot really does not want to think about how the plan’s gonna go.

What is funny, though, is how after five and a half years together not one of them can think of a thing to toast to.

Eliot’s tying his hair back a few minutes later when he starts to see spots. “No,” he growls, because he’s not ready. But this is it, he thinks, as the spots fill his vision and he crashes to one knee. Parker and Hardison are in the other room getting things together for the ritual. Eliot tries to call to them.

He is supposed to be ready for this. Or however ready he’s supposed to be when he’s gone and gotten himself attached even though he told himself he would never settle. Eliot thinks of Parker’s horrifying eating habits that he’s never going to fix, and he kind of wanted to meet Hardison’s Nana and he never got to open up his own restaurant or hardware shop and he should have visited the graves of…

As he loses consciousness the thought doesn’t even occur to him that Hardison’s drugged the wine because it can only mean one thing if they want him out of the picture.

 

 

 

Eliot wakes up sometime later wrapped in the Snuggie that Parker got Hardison for his birthday last month. It was meant as something of a joke and has little monkeys dangling from trees printed on it.

He groans, pushes the Snuggie away, and squeezes his temples. His chest feels strange.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Parker says.

“Parker, what—“out of habit Eliot glances at the clock on the pub’s wall. “It’s one am!”

Then it registers: he’s in the pub. On the couch.

Alive.

Hardison breezes in, balancing a bowl of popcorn in the crook of his elbow. He hands Eliot a mug of something. “Yo, I got some free movies on demand,” he announces, turning on the wall monitors with his free hand. There's a bandage poking out of his sleeve. “Who’s ready for some grade-A surround sound cinema?”

Eliot stares into his mug. It’s coffee—mostly black, the way he likes it.

“To wash out the taste,” Parker explains. She’s sitting on the other side of the couch with her shoes off in a lotus position.

“I don’t understand,” Eliot says. He stands, rubbing his chest absently. Everything spins a little, but only for a moment. The feeling is oddly familiar. Eliot suddenly recalls the Dubai job because the coffee, and this woozy, not-hangover means—

“Did you—“Eliot blinks—“did you guys _drug_ me?” He knew something had been off with the plan, dammit.

“Well technically Hardison drugged you, and I watched,” replies Parker. She sticks her bottom lip out. “Don’t be mad, okay?”

 _“Don’t be mad_ —Parker, what did you do?” Eliot looks between Hardison and Parker. “You didn’t—no.” He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. I would—I would know.”

“So our original plan was to knock you out and go trade our souls in exchange to keep you here a little bit longer,” Hardison begins, “but that became our _fallback_ plan once we thought of something better.”

Eliot’s glaring, hard enough that anybody who’s not Hardison or Parker would have probably soiled themselves by now. “What did you do?” he asks again, deadly quiet.

“We sold other peoples’ souls,” replies Parker, matter-of-factly.

“Jesus, Parker!” Eliot snaps, loud enough to make Hardison startle and Parker dive under the monkey Snuggie. He jabs a finger at them. “You don’t screw around with magic. Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done?”

“Actually, yeah,” Hardison says. “We just made a business transaction, and a damn good one too.”

 _Business transaction,_ Jesus fuck. Eliot grits his teeth. “Who did you… _sell_ for me?”

“The Black Book,” replies Parker, poking out from under the Snuggie. “The really bad ones.”

“So you two just up and traded a bunch of people to keep me here, even when I told you not to, even when I told you I was ready,” Eliot says, flat. “You told me we were going to bargain for a few more years! That was the plan!”

“And we did,” says Hardison, grinning his Cat with Cream grin that makes Eliot want to reach over and strangle something.

Parker taps her own chest. “She said you’d feel different now.”

Eliot turns his head, distracted. “What?”

“It’s not every day I say this,” Hardison tells him, “but you mortal, bro.”

Now Parker’s looking at Eliot’s chest. “Did you notice?”

“I…” Yes and no, Eliot thinks, because he’d noticed _something,_ only he hadn’t known what to call it. His chest feels warm and light. He feels _good._

But angry.

“The Black Book,” he says, slowly. “Every bad guy in there we take down. That was exactly the kind of thing I didn’t want you doing!”

Parker tilts her head. “Why?” 

“Playing God got Nate into a whole lot of trouble,” Eliot growls. “And yeah, we fuck with people for a living, but it’ll get us into trouble too if we cross the line and start deciding who lives and dies. Did you even stop to consider that my life might not be worth all of theirs?”

“No,” Hardison and Parker say instantly.

It’s what makes them so dangerous, Eliot realizes, in that moment. _He_ makes them dangerous. They'd kill, steal, watch the world burn for him. It's enough to deflate his anger. He's still kinda mad, but at the same time, Eliot has never loved them more for it.

He sighs and tucks some hair behind one ear. “So I’m released from my contract,” he says.

Parker nods, playing with the ends of the Snuggie. “We can grow old together now and you won’t have to watch us die,” she answers. “And we won’t have to watch you die, and we won’t have to watch Nate and Sophie die—“

“I get it, I get it,” Eliot says, waving her off with a scowl. “You guys know that if I go down now, I’m not gettin’ back up,” he says.

Hardison shrugs, unfazed. “So don’t go down. It’s ‘bout time you started valuing your life a little more, anyway. I’m just sayin.’”

And Eliot doesn’t really know what to say to that. So he says, “If you try anything like that again I _will_ stab you. Slowly. With great precision.”

“Fair enough.”

Eliot’s eyes narrow. “And never drug me again.”

“You’re welcome,” Hardison says, because he knows that Eliot needs time before he can say thank you.

Parker unfolds her legs and says brightly, “We should celebrate another successful job.”

Eliot puts a hand to his chest, where his heartbeat is steady and calm and he knows now that everything is going to be alright. He’s got his two idiots, mad fighting skills, and a lifetime to live out.

“Fine. But no more wine,” he grunts.

“Y’all just don’t want to admit it was a bit strong,” Hardison says, pouting.

Eliot blanches. "A _bit strong—"_

“Hardison, you know I'm not picky about sweet stuff but even _I_ didn’t like the wine,” Parker says.

Hardison looks wounded. He walks over, plops down on the other end of the couch, and pulls the Snuggie across his lap. “This thing’s enormous,” he remarks, and looks at Eliot, who’s still standing. “My incredible powers of deduction deduce that it is in fact big enough for three. Don't you think so, Babe?”

"Why gosh darn, I think you're right," Parker says. They're both looking at Eliot with open, inviting eyes.

“It’s late,” Eliot says like a complete idiot, even though he wants to, he so wants to. “You should go to bed.”

“We should,” Parker agrees with a small, impish smile. She makes no move to get up.

Hardison holds up his clicker. With his other hand he raises the bowl of popcorn and grins. “Sooo…movies?”

And Eliot’s been fighting for so long that he suddenly feels weird—but in a good way, not having to. That sometimes, just sometimes, he doesn’t have to fight. He’s got people to fight for him, with him, his new family.

Smiling, Eliot comes to sit on the couch between them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

 

End.

 

 


End file.
